


Altitude

by hotcereal



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Time Period, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Pining, Tense Shift, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:25:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcereal/pseuds/hotcereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire might not make for a good Pylades. He is, however, a somewhat satisfactory Icarus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altitude

Before he became too lost in absinthe to care much for the attention of books, Grantaire had read of Icarus. He lay awake at night and thought of how the gods must have laughed at Icarus as the sun melted his wings and felled him from the skies; how they must have thought the boy foolish for believing he could imitate them and touch the heavens. He didn't like the tale, what with punishment being dealt to someone who just wanted to be part of something bigger than themselves. He had never touched the book again, but he sometimes still fancied that he could hear the wind whistling past his ears.

\--

Years and an eon ago, Grantaire had been swept away to the Musain. He had gone to the other end of the city to pick up some pigments when a downpour ruptured the skies. The streets were a wet, chaotic mess as people rushed to find shelter and Grantaire had to be careful to keep his pigments and bottle close for fear that they would be knocked from his hands. Grantaire stumbled up to a building, apparently a café; it was crooked and small and dirty and honestly much like his flat in that sense. If the building was relatively dry inside, it would easily do. 

The café was even more cramped than its outside would suggest, people crammed tight to escape the deluge. Grantaire couldn't even shake the rain from his hair lest he draw glares and trouble for flecking everyone nearby with water. He searched the room before him, wondering if maybe he should give up and make his way back to the apartment even if the trek might damage his pigments; the establishment was obviously full-up already--

It was then he chanced a glance at a table tucked away in a corner, surrounded by boys that seemed more or less his age. He approached, twisting his bottle nervously in cold and soaking gloves. A youth with yellow hair looked him up and down, scrutinising him carefully. _("Do you permit my attendance?" Grantaire had asked. He could leave, he_ would _leave if_ he'd _ask him to--)_ The boy apparently found a satisfactory answer to whatever question he was silently asking, shaking Grantaire's hand and drawing him in. _("Welcome," he had said in greeting, his countenance suddenly warm with his acceptance. He gestured towards the boys gathered before him. "My name is Enjolras, and we are--")_

Grantaire felt like he had been initiated in something but didn't quite know what-- he assumed the papers spread before him would let him know but he was too distracted by the new company to pay attention. Grantaire picked up his bottle from where he had left it in order to accept the other's hand, looking on as Enjolras turned to converse with his bespectacled companion. They blazed together with a fervour Grantaire already envied. As he brought the mouth of the bottle to his lips, he thought, perhaps, that he could relate to how Icarus felt as he drew closer to the sun.

\--

_(Unrest is rising. Enjolras insists they will be able to make their move soon. Grantaire is standing at the edge of a cliff.)_

\--

Now, he watches Enjolras speak, standing aloft among a crowd, all red vests and flaxen-wheat hair, furrowed brows and extravagant hand gestures. He shines blindingly triumphant and golden with his passion. Grantaire looks down at where his charcoal-smudged fingers rest idly against his bottle, shadows playing through the dirty glass.

Enjolras glances over at him, eyebrows drawing closer together before turning his sights elsewhere. It seems that not even his heated monologues can melt the iciness of his regard. Grantaire swallows his alcohol so the words he wants to say can't escape.

This, he thinks. This must be how Icarus felt as he plummeted towards the sea.

\--

Feathers are not particularly abundant in the muddy and cobbled streets of Paris. He makes due with wings of broken glass and drying oils held together by cheap wine. He drifts on them back to his apartment, finding it dark and chilled. He's forgotten to buy more tallow for candles but can't bring himself to care much as he carries his already half-emptied bottle to the bed.

_(In his dreams, his wings unfurl, pinions towering and glorious-- he ascends, soaring ever-higher, and is allowed to feel the sunlight against his skin.)_

\--

_(He falls asleep in his chair. Enjolras disdains of him, but Grantaire cannot watch as he throws his life at the feet of a country that will not cherish it as it should. The wind whistles past his ears.)_

\--

He awakes to ringing silence and resolves to not let his story end quite the same way.

Grantaire finds Enjolras standing proud among men, defiant and divine. He draws as close as he dares, window to his back; the summer's light breaks and Grantaire finds he can feel its warmth upon him. 

_("Do you permit it?" Grantaire knows he will not leave this room, but he will turn around, or withdraw from his side, or whatever Enjolras requests but--)_

Enjolras reaches towards him. Even now, he glows among the wreckage, his smile new and as brilliant and beautiful as the dawn of morning. Grantaire thinks of Icarus and reaches back.

His hand is clasped tight with Enjolras' and Grantaire welcomes the burning sun. He falls at the other's feet in supplication and does not regret.


End file.
